Slightly damaged goods,
Shop soiled.
Not quite as described,
Embroiled
In a world inside his head
Were nothing's as it seems
Were every waking moment
Feels like a really weird dream
A few cards short of a full deck,
And all of his cards are marked.
Not quite sure what the big plan was
When this life he embarked.
But quite sure that it wasn't this,
This wasn't his life's goal.
To feel that every day is another
Nail right though his soul
At an age where he should be
Quite content with his lot.
He feels the seams are tearing daily
And happy he is not
Medication takes off the edge
And most days that is fine.
And if all else fails there's oblivion
In a bottle or two of wine.
So is this it? Is this the way
That life is supposed to be?
Or is it just that this is who
I am, is this just me?
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